It was supposed to be a plant party. Really. Plant parties were all the rage in southern California in the 70's. But it was actually a surprise baby shower, for me. It was a little late for a shower - I was nearing the end of my ninth month - but my friends discovered I never had a baby shower for our first born, courtesy of the Air Force moving us cross-country in the middle of my pregnancy, and they decided I needed one.
Everything was set. My hubby Stan, who was taking evening classes toward his Masters degree, was starting a new quarter that night. A friend was picking me up for the party and her husband was going to stay with our two year old. Just before his class, Stan called to make sure everything was okay. Remember, no cell phones back then. I told him I was fine and I'd see him after the party.
Ten minutes after his call, I went into labor.
I called the hostess to let her know I'd was skipping the party without going into exactly why. She whined and complained about all the other people who had cancelled out and laid a major guilt trip on me, trying to get me to come. I didn't realized I was the guest of honor. In self-defense, I explained my labor had started.
I called my friend and cancelled my ride, but let her husband know we'd probably need his babysitting services later that night. Then I settled down to wait for my husband. I wasn't doing this without him.
For the next three hours I dealt with an endless stream of calls from friends insisting I let them take me to the hospital. A couple showed up at the door. They were panicking. I was fine.
At 9:30, Stan came hone and wanted to know why I wasn't at the 'plant party'. I handed him the notepad I'd been tracking my contractions on.
"Okay, I'll call Art (the babysitter). Let's go."
Now he's a wonderful husband and father, as well as our beautiful son.
Happy Birthday, Matt.
Oh, and in case you're wondering, we did have the baby shower, a couple weeks after he was born. They didn't try to surprise me.